I found a baby bird today. Right here in the city, near my apartment, of all places. It was nestled in a small patch of grass and mulch, just beneath a tree planted in one of those narrow beds crammed between stretches of pavement. I imagine it must have had a nest up there somewhere among the spindly branches, but something had gone wrong. Either the little thing leapt before it was ready, or it was nudged out by something stronger. Either way, its first flight didn't end well.
I was out walking my dog when he spotted it. His nose went straight to the tiny, featherless creature, sniffing with a curiosity that certainly wasn't safe for the baby bird. The bird was near the base of the tree, blinking up at the world with bright eyes, its beak parted slightly. I looked up, way up, at the tree branches waving gently above us, but there was no way I could return it to its nest. Not without wings of my own.
So, I did what any normal person with a heart and a tendency to collect hopeless causes would do. I scooped it up and brought it back to my apartment. I guess I’m in the business of raising baby birds now.
I’ve got to tell you, babies are a lot of work, even the feathered kind. This tiny thing is hungry all the time, its beak stretched wide, demanding food at the most inconvenient moments. It’s astonishing how much a creature that small can eat.
And then there’s the matter of supervision. Someone always has to keep an eye on it, even when it’s napping, because if I don’t, my dog might decide to turn it into an afternoon snack. He watches it with the same intensity he reserves for squirrels, his eyes locked in, ears perked, like he’s just waiting for me to look the other way.
I am delighted by this little bird. I’ve named him Winston. I say him, but honestly, I have no idea. He could very well be a Winnie. But Winston feels right. Its distinguished, dignified, the kind of name you give a tiny creature who has already survived more than most.
And the timing of Winston’s arrival is interesting. I’ve got two intense, back-to-back work weeks staring me down. These weeks are full of deadlines, meetings, and the kind of high-stakes chaos that normally leaves me wound up and restless. Anxiety tends to creep in during times like these, weaving itself into the quiet moments and making even rest feel like work.
But Winston, well, Winston is a welcome interruption. There’s something oddly grounding about feeding a baby bird and watching him shuffle around in his makeshift nest of towels like he owns the place. He chirps at me like I’m supposed to understand. He doesn't care about emails or project plans. He just wants warmth, food, and to not get eaten by the dog. Fair enough.
He’s become a tiny reminder that not everything has to be efficient or productive to be meaningful. Sometimes, what we need most is a small, unexpected life to care for, to pull us out of our heads and into the moment.
I know Winston needs me. But I think I might need him too.
Look at the Birds
“Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?” – Matthew 6:26
Winston has no idea how close he came to not making it. He doesn’t know about the height of the fall, or the fact that my dog’s interest in him wasn’t exactly friendly. He doesn’t know that I’m not a trained bird rescuer or that his odds of survival outside were paper thin (and honestly still are).
All he knows is that he was hungry, and someone showed up.
And isn’t that the heart of what Jesus was saying? “Look at the birds...” They don’t build savings accounts. They don’t have five-year plans. They don’t control their environments or overthink their futures. They simply exist, and God cares for them.
Winston doesn’t earn anything. He’s not productive. He’s not impressive. He just opens his beak and chirps incessantly. If I'm being totally honest, I think he's got some personality flaws that might have gotten him kicked out of the nest.
And somehow, he’s okay.
It’s such a gentle, holy reminder for people like me, people who think if we just plan better, hustle harder, juggle faster, we can hold it all together. But the truth is, most days I feel like Winston. Flailing. Exposed. A little startled by life. And fully incapable of saving myself.
And yet, God shows up.
In the middle of the mess, in the midst of the deadlines, God gently reminds me: “You’re not in control. But I am. And I love you far more than the birds.”
Winston doesn’t worry about the next feeding. He trusts that provision will come. And every time I drop food into his little beak, I hear God whispering, “See? If I care this much about him, how much more do I care for you?”
Elijah at the Brook
It was the sound of dry wind that reached him first.
The kind of wind that stirred dust off rocks and whispered through cracked branches like a warning. He had been walking for what felt like miles, deeper into the wilderness, far from everything familiar; palace walls, watchful eyes, even the faint outline of home. God had told him to go east, to hide near the brook Cherith, and he obeyed. But it didn’t feel much like a rescue.
The land was barren, the sky stretched taut with heat, and silence hovered like a weight. Elijah may have wondered if he’d made a mistake, if he had misunderstood God’s voice. After all, who goes to a ravine to survive a drought? Who hides in a dry land and expects to live?
But then, he heard the water.
A soft, steady trickle, barely more than a whisper against stone, but enough. The brook wound its way through the rocks like a silver thread, just as the Lord had said. He dropped to his knees and drank, the water cool and against his skin. His hands trembled, not from thirst, but from relief.
Still, one question remained: What about food?
That’s when he saw them.
Black wings against a pale sky, ravens. At first, he must have thought he was hallucinating. But no, they circled and descended, and in their beaks, in their claws…bread. Meat. Elijah watched in awe as they dropped it near him, then disappeared as quickly as they had come.
He stared at the food for a moment, unsure if he was even allowed to touch something so miraculous. But hunger outweighed hesitation. He ate. And the next morning, they came again. And the evening after that. Day after day, twice a day, God fed him by the mouths of birds.
It was humbling. A prophet of the Most High, dependent on crumbs from ravens. He who had spoken thunder over kings now waited on wings for breakfast. But in that hidden place, Elijah began to understand something he never could have learned in the courts or on the mountaintop: God didn’t need his strength. He desired his trust.
God could have sent an angel. He could have caused fruit to spring up overnight. But instead, He sent ravens, creatures most people avoided, to feed him. And He did it not once, but over and over. There were no witnesses. No applause. Just Elijah, God, the water, and the birds.
And he was never alone.
That’s really what it all comes down to, isn’t it? Trust. The kind that stares down the giants of an anxious calendar, an overwhelming to-do list, or maybe something more serious. A broken relationship. A diagnosis. A heart that feels stretched too thin. Trust says “Even here, God will provide.”
He is the One who sends ravens.
The One who notices fallen birds.
The One who sees you when no one else does and whispers, “I’ve got you.”
Winston doesn’t know where his next meal comes from. But he gets fed anyway. Elijah didn’t know how long the brook would last. But he drank and waited. And maybe that’s what trust looks like, not having it all figured out, but choosing to believe that the same God who feeds the birds will take care of me, too.
So I’ll keep feeding Winston. I’ll keep showing up. But more than that, I’ll keep opening my own hands, empty and unsure, and trusting that God will place something there. Maybe not always what I asked for. But always what I need.
Because His provision isn’t a formula. It’s a promise.
Holding On to His Promises When Fear Takes Over
“When I am afraid, I put my trust in You.” – Psalm 56:3
There are times in life when fear feels louder than faith.
The future feels like a question mark with no safe answer. And while we know in our heads that God is good, our hearts feel anything but calm. In moments like these, trusting God's promises can feel like trying to grip water. We know it's there, we just don't always know how to hold on.
But Scripture never tells us to pretend we aren't afraid. It doesn't say, “When I am strong, I trust in God.” It says, “When I am afraid…” Fear isn’t a disqualifier for faith. It’s an invitation into it.
The Bible is full of reminders that God knew we would wrestle with fear. That’s why some version of “do not be afraid” shows up more than 300 times. And when God says it, He doesn’t say it with frustration. He says it with presence.
“Do not be afraid… for I am with you.” (Isaiah 41:10)
“Do not let your hearts be troubled… trust in Me.” (John 14:1)
“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted…” (Psalm 34:18)
When life feels overwhelming, the most practical thing we can do is return to what is unchanging. That’s what His promises are, anchors in the middle of the storm. Not vague hope, but specific truth. He will never leave you (Deuteronomy 31:6). He will supply all your needs (Philippians 4:19). He will give you peace (John 14:27). He will finish the work He began in you (Philippians 1:6).
Trusting God’s promises doesn’t mean we won’t feel afraid. It means that when we do, we choose to stand on something stronger than our emotions. We speak truth to our fear. We open Scripture even when we feel numb. We pray, even when our words are shaky. We whisper promises out loud, not because they instantly fix everything, but because they remind us who God is when everything else feels uncertain.
And slowly, fear loses its grip. Not because our situation changes, but because we’ve remembered where to place our trust.
Winston may just be a tiny bird in a cardboard box, but he’s reminded me of something eternal: we are deeply seen, carefully held, and lovingly provided for by a God who misses nothing. In the chaos of life, when we feel helpless or overwhelmed, we can still trust Him, because His care isn’t based on our strength, His presence isn’t earned by our performance, and His promises are never broken.
If He watches over the birds,
He will not forget you.
Add your comment